


Outside the Box

by Dreaming_Spire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sherlock Secret Santa 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:55:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade needs to find a gift for Mycroft, but time is running out.</p><p>A (late) gift for Leviafan as part of Tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside the Box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leviafan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviafan/gifts).



_What do you get for the man who has everything?_ Greg Lestrade wandered through the Southbank Christmas Market, which, for all its stalls filled with lights and gifts of all sorts, had absolutely nothing that Mycroft Holmes might like. The fact that Lestrade was here spoke to his desperation – well, desperation and it _was_ on his way home.

But he'd been walking around for more than an hour, and all he'd managed to accomplish was to have eaten a staggering amount of unhealthy food. The sausage and the kebab might have been acceptable, and the gingerbread - well, it was Christmastime, after all. That was also his justification for the first cup of Gluhwein, but it didn't quite work for the nachos or churros.

Now, he held his third cup of mulled wine, and his pocket was warmed by a bag of chestnuts, in the hopes that it would forestall any more impulsive, indigestion-inducing purchases. He'd skipped lunch, making a dash to the shops around his office, with the faint hope that he might find some sort of suitable gift. Now, he was still giftless, clueless, and eyeing a waffle stand in a rather dangerous fashion.

Finding a gift for Mycroft shouldn't have been so impossible. Perhaps Greg should have expected it to be, though.

Mycroft's home was impeccably, particularly furnished - every object chosen with an eye towards an aesthetic goal. Eminently practical, Mycroft wasn't the sort to pine for things - if he needed or wanted it, he simply obtained it. He was a man who did not want what he didn't have.  
Maybe that should have been reassuring. If Mycroft preferred Greg's company, that meant a great deal, then, didn't it? And yet, Greg felt a bit like this was a chance to prove something - that he understood Mycroft, that he deserved to be chosen, that whatever Mycroft saw in Greg was real.

He tried to shrug off the feeling. Hadn't Mycroft hand-waved the very idea of gifts? "I don't need a token, Gregory. I'm assured of your esteem for me. And I do have enough umbrella-themed trinkets." The elder Holmes brother had almost smiled as he said that. Blast both of the unsentimental bastards.

He'd been desperate enough to try asking Sherlock for advice. The only answer he'd received was a derisive snort, then John'd snatched Sherlock's mobile, and promised to let Greg know if he could think of anything.

If anyone could sympathize with his problem, John could. Shopping for Sherlock couldn't be much easier than for Mycroft. Just as he was wondering how John managed, his phone buzzed with a text from John himself.

_Are you at Southbank Market?_

Greg raised an eyebrow, then texted: _Y. How did you know?_

John replied: _Sherlock. Which stall? Stay there. See you in 5._

It was a bit longer than five minutes, but soon enough, Greg saw John navigating towards him through the crowd.

John spotted him, and waved as he approached. "Sorry about that. Sherlock caused a bit of disturbance with a food vendor - something about sanitation issues." John's cheeks were rosy and he carried a small, festively decorated bag.

"I'm can't say I'm surprised. What's this?" Greg asked, as John held out the bag.

"What do you get the man who has everything? A box to put it in," John grinned. Inside the bag was a package the size of a shoebox, wrapped just as merrily.

"Are you joking? I almost DID get him a box, but he doesn't even need that - he's not only got everything, but he's got it stored just so,” Greg said.

"Don't I know it,” John said. “Sherlock's just as much of a bugger to buy for, so I asked him what he usually gets Mycroft. Thought maybe I could get some ideas."

"And?"

"Turns out Mycroft pays some of Sherlock's bills, and Sherlock accepts with only a small amount of bad grace on his part," John explained.

"How very heartwarming,” Greg rolled his eyes.

"Isn't it, though?” John smirked. “Apparently, it's been this way for a long time."

"So, how does this fit in?" Greg held up the bag.

"Well, it turns out the one thing they both used to enjoy were Christmas sweets.,” John went on. “Of course, there's a history of impressive rows about them, too..."

"Again, not surprised." Greg had considered buying sweets, but Mycroft's careful diet had ruled that out as a possibility.

"Well, there's more to it than that,” John said. “Did you know Sherlock can bake? He can, really well, when he pays attention. Baking's just chemistry, and you know how he loves to show off. Since he doesn't give a toss about eating most of the time, he doesn't bother. Mycroft, on the other hand, can't manage it, or he won't. I couldn't get the story behind that out of Sherlock, but still - "

"So Mycroft eats but can't bake, and Sherlock can bake but won't eat?"

"Right,” John nodded. “So, once, Sherlock made a batch of Russian teacakes - their grandmother used to bake them at Christmas, and Mycroft's really partial to them. Apparently, this particular batch of cookies was unbelievably good. It ruined all other versions for Mycroft."

"And the problem was...” Greg prodded.

"The problem **is** that annoying Mycroft is a competitive sport as far as Sherlock's concerned. He said he'd never make them again, and he'd never reveal the change he made. Mycroft's paid for dozens of attempts to recreate them with zero success.” John shook his head. “You know Sherlock, though. He's never happy until he knows you know how clever he's been. He made more, just to show me. Mycroft's always assumed it's some combination of nuts and techniques. Sherlock tricked Mycroft by toasting and caramelizing walnuts, almonds, pecans and hazelnuts, so there were traces of all of that. Mycroft suspected some of them were decoys. That’s where he was wrong."

"How?" Greg asked.

“They were all decoys. Browning the butter adds another flavor, a bit like those, but not quite. It fools the nose, but not the palate," John said. “There's only the regular walnuts in there, other than that. They're fairly good, even so."

"I see,” Greg said. “He won't make them for Mycroft, but he made them for you? He must've realized what you were going to do, didn't he?"

"I'm sure, probably from the moment I asked,” John said.

“And he knows you're giving them to me?" Greg frowned a bit.

"The cookies and the recipe,” John smiled.

“He knows you're giving them to me, which means he knows Mycroft will end up with them.”

"Yes,” John said. “So, what do you get the stiffnecked know-it-all who’s morally against giving up a point of contention?"

Now it was Greg’s turn to smile. "A graceful way out."

“My gift to Sherlock is letting him be a bit sentimental without showing it,” John said. “Your gift to Mycroft can be letting yourself bear someone else's olive branch. That and the box, I suppose.”

"You know, I think that works," Greg said.

John nodded in agreement. Two familiar voices were making themselves heard through the crowd.

"I'm surprised you haven't had the idea of having children so you could raid their stockings for candy. How IS the diet coming these days?" Sherlock asked his brother pointedly.

"And will you be having your usual Yuletide sulk if nobody decides to violate the idea of goodwill towards man in a manner you deem intriguing?” Mycroft retorted. “How very merry your Christmas will be if there's no murder."

"Hello, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "I'd stay to chat, but John and I need to get to Harrod's."

"Shopping?" Mycroft asked.

"No, sadly," John said. "I told him I'd play Spot the Shoplifter."

"I see. Tidings of comfort and joy all around, then, Doctor Watson. Make him pay for an overpriced coffee, at least,” Mycroft said.

"I will - and I'll charge it to your account." Sherlock stalked away, with a defiant flick of his coat. John waved and followed.

"Hello, Gregory," Mycroft said. "I was wondering - since you're here, would you like to take in a view of the city? We might be able to get a private capsule."

"Might, eh?” Greg asked. “Is that mistletoe on your umbrella spine?"

"Someone's idea of a Christmas joke. I don't know why I've left it,” Mycroft said, with a hint of a grin.

"Neither do I. Let's figure it out on the ride." Smiling, Greg held out his free hand.

Mycroft took it, with a glance at the bag in Greg's other hand. "And what is that?"

"It's something I imagine you don't often get - a real surprise."


End file.
